


Dangerous Man

by im_an_octopus



Category: John Wick (Movies), John Wick - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Gen, I never knew, M/M, idk fam i never think these things through, john is actually awful at dating, not i, this takes place in an au where helen doesn't exist i guess???, who knew i could thirst over keanu reeves so hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 10:24:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16993254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_an_octopus/pseuds/im_an_octopus
Summary: When you work at The Continental, you meet plenty of tall, dark, and handsome strangers; but there's one in particular who catches your eye...





	1. Chapter 1

You smoothed out your shirt and looked in the mirror. It was your first day on the job. You were decked out head to toe in brand new clothes. All from a designer you’d never heard of. All custom made to fit you perfectly. All completely free. On top of that, you’d be making a salary that, at entry level, was six figures. And all you had to do was deliver room service.

But there was a saying you’d heard since you were young: If it’s too good to be true, then it probably is.

You should have suspected something was off when you had to give a blood sample, a urine sample, a DNA swab, and answer a thirteen page questionnaire that included things like “list the full names of your parents, siblings, and grandparents” or “do you have any experience with sutures, cauterization, or CPR?”

And then the interview, itself, felt more like an interrogation. The whole thing gave you this weird feeling in your gut, but this was also the most exclusive hotel in New York City. Getting a room here wasn’t about whether or not you had the money, but whether or not you knew the right people, and even then, it was typically booked solid. You’d even heard a rumor that The Queen of England was denied a room once. Of course they’d be picky about their staff.

But after the lengthy interview process and dozen or so signatures on papers you probably should have read, you found out the truth about The Continental.

The manager’s name was Winston. He was nice enough, though he had a very “no nonsense” attitude about him. The more you found out about the place, though, the more you understood why. It was a safe haven for a secret society of people. Assassins. Hit men. Gang Lords. The underground elite of not only New York, but the entire world. The only currency accepted from customers were gold coins. One gold coin was the equivalent to one favor. It was a simple system, Winston explained, but complex to newcomers. You’d pick it up over time. All you needed to know was that if you got a coin, you kept a close eye on it.

Additionally, the hotel followed a strict set of rules, but the two that most concerned you were that staff was never to ask questions, and no business could ever be conducted on hotel grounds. The latter of the two should have made you feel safer, but instead, it just made you more nervous.

Upon the conclusion of your meeting with Winston, he presented you with a single gold coin. You looked at him curiously. He smiled, and said simply:

“A welcome gift.”

***

Day one went by smoothly. The people were about as you expected. They all exuded an aura of confidence. Everyone made eye contact with you, and held it for just a little longer than was comfortable. Everyone seemed like they had a million secrets…and they probably did.

Day two went about the same. You made your rounds. Delivered things to rooms. Tended to guest requests. It was a little boring, actually. You were in a hotel of assassins and the oddest thing you’d had to do was try to get a small soot stain out of a white shirt. It took some time, but eventually you managed to get it. It earned you the biggest tip you’d ever gotten in your life. 

Day three, things started to get interesting. Word must have gotten out about your soot stain removal, and you found yourself in the laundry room working on a number of garments. Winston wasted no time in switching your title from room service to drycleaner. He raised your salary and insisted you come on full time. As in twenty four hours, full time. You thought he was joking, so you joked back and said yes. The next night you went home to your apartment to find your things gone with nothing but a key to a room at The Continental.

Day four you should have been pissed, but your new home was twice as big as your old one, and there was no rent involved. You did have a roommate. Apparently he was the hotel doctor, but he kept to himself mostly, locking himself in his bedroom and emerging sporadically, grumbling and carrying a small medical bag.

Day five was when you met John.

He was like everyone else that came through the doors. Mysterious and impeccably dressed. You’d been sitting in the lobby, reading a book when he entered. You didn’t like being in your room when it was so much better to people watch. It didn’t cross your mind that people like these wouldn’t fall for your “focused on a book and nobody else” trick.

He must have been a regular, because Charon, the concierge, addressed him the moment he walked through the door.

“Good day, Mr. Wick,” he was always so formal. You could learn a lesson or two from him. “How may I be of service?”

“I need a room.” Mr. Wick’s voice was soft and somewhat gruff as he lightly placed four coins on the desk and slid them forward. Charon pocketed them without looking up from his papers. 

“Very good, sir. Is there anything else?”

He spoke again, but you’d become distracted by his features. He was a handsome man, with nearly-black hair. It was long enough to brush his upper jaw, slicked back neatly. His eyes were dark and focused, while the bottom half of his face was framed by meticulously maintained stubble that borderlined a beard. The suit he wore was just as sleek as he was, and you couldn’t begin to imagine how much it cost. It accentuated his athletic frame in all the right ways. He was the closest thing to flawless that you’d ever seen, and now he was walking your way.

“You’re new here.” He didn’t phrase it as a question, but more as an observation as he stopped and looked at you carefully. Everyone here was always looking at you carefully, but his gaze felt deeper than the others.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.”

“I’m the new drycleaner…which, I never knew that hotels had drycleaners. Or doctors. But then again, this isn’t really like most hotels, is it? I was supposed to be room service, and I was for a few days, but see I got this soot stain out of some guy’s shirt and now suddenly I’m up to my ass in stains all day…” you trailed off and laughed nervously to fill the silence. You always rambled when you got nervous around people, and he might have been the most intimidating one you’d ever met.

“I know. I have something that I need cleaned, if you can.”

“I can clean anything. What sort of stain is it?”

“I’ll have it sent down,” he replied simply. Everything out of his mouth was curt, yet sounded so polite.

“Yeah, alright. I’m here. I’m always here, Mr. Wick.” The pleasantries didn’t flow from your mouth nearly as nicely as they did Charon’s, but practice made perfect.

“John is fine.”

You smiled has he walked off without bothering to say goodbye. John. You felt a small tugging in your stomach. You didn’t know how or why, but you knew for certain that John Wick was going to change your life.

It didn’t take long to find that you were right.

***

John was seated on one of the chairs facing the large window, slouched slightly, with a hand wrapped around a thick crystal glass of what you suspected to be bourbon. He didn’t acknowledge you when you came in, but somehow you knew that he was well aware of your presence.

Usually whatever garment you were supposed to take care of would be hanging next to the door in a black bag, but after an initial scan, you came up short. So where would you go from here? Clear your throat and interrupt his thoughts? You could practically feel Charon’s judgmental gaze on you as the idea crossed your mind. Bad idea. So you just stayed how you were. Motionless. Quiet. So far so good.

“Are you here for the dry cleaning?”

You nearly jumped at the sudden interruption of silence, but managed to keep your composure.

“Yes, Mr. Wick.”

“John,” he corrected while he set his glass down and rose slowly to his feet.

You watched as he padded to the bathroom. He vanished momentarily and you could hear what sounded like water droplets hitting porcelain. There were pauses in the droplets. Two of them. And after each pause, the drops became softer. He reappeared holding a dress shirt that was wet and wrinkled from being wrung out tightly.

You stared at it incredulously. It looked expensive. Most likely custom made. And the entire right side was soaked in what appeared to be a very fresh blood stain. God, you had so many questions.

“I’ve been told that soaking fresh ones in cold water makes them come out easier.”

“I think…maybe I ought to just call the tailor up here…get you a new one.”

“Can you try?”

“Sir, I’m good, but I’m not that good.” You inwardly cringed. Sir still felt so awkward coming out of your mouth.

He looked at you thoughtfully and then moved to open the nightstand drawer where he pulled out a gold coin. “Can you try?”

You raised your eyebrows. “Really? For a shirt?”

“I like this shirt.”

“Alright, John. I’ll see what I can do.”

***

After an eternity of scrubbing with every secret family concoction you knew, you’d managed to fade the stain from bright red, to salmon. Definitely better than before, but there still wasn’t much hope. As you were cleaning it you found a tear in the center of the stain, presumably from a jagged blade that caused the wound in the first place. You tried to put the thought out of your mind as you dried it and walked it down to the tailor.

He was a pretentious man who threw a fit about stitching up “garbage”, as he so kindly put it, but once you dropped John’s name, he shut his mouth and got to work. Everyone seemed to have that sort of reaction when it came to John, and you could only begin to imagine why.

When it was all said and done with, you walked the shirt up to his room the next day, feeling very defeated. Despite the faded stain and patched hole, it managed to look even worse for the wear.

With a sigh, you knocked on his door and waited. There was a part of you that hoped he wouldn’t be in, so you could just lay it on his bed and slink away; but there was a bigger part that was aching for him to open the door. Even submerged in the culture of underground assassins, you’d never quite felt as much of a sense of danger as you did with John, and the stories you were beginning to hear about him from gossiping guests made him all the more fascinating. 

He answered on the third knock, looking incredibly tired, but still incredibly handsome.

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” he sounded groggy as he eyed the hanger in your hand.

“That’s good. I uh…have…this…”

John stepped back to prop the door open, inviting you in. “That doesn’t sound promising.”

“Well in some spots it’s out. In others it’s faded, but noticeable…and I got the tear stitched up.”

He took the hanger from you and scanned his very sad looking shirt. You busied yourself with digging in your pockets to fish out the coin he gave you earlier. “Here.”

“I gave that to you in exchange for—“

“Yeah, I know, and I didn’t complete the task you gave me.”

John looked taken aback, obviously not used to being cut off while he spoke. It gave him a strange sense of humanity that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“You can keep it,” he said gently.

“You gave me that to remove a stain. I wasn’t able to do that, so you get it back. That’s how it works.”

“Is that how it works?” The hint of a smile ghosted over his face and you could feel yourself blushing at the stupidity of your comment. Of course he, who’d been at this for years upon year, knew how it fucking worked.

“That came out wrong…”

“Keep the coin. Meet me in the lounge at eight tonight.”

***

You arrived in the lounge ten minutes early, and ordered yourself a drink that you nervously polished off a little too fast. As the bartender set down another, you checked your watch. 7:59. No sign of John yet, though, you couldn’t say you were surprised. He seemed like the sort of man who was always exactly on time. Not a minute early, not a minute late. And you were right.

As soon as 7:59 turned into 8, the empty seat next to you became occupied. You turned to greet him with a smile, but nearly fell off your stool, instead. He was a mess.

His hair was disheveled, and fell wildly about his face. There were small cuts along the bridge of his nose, cheek, and eyebrow. His clothes—a perfectly tailored black suit, shirt, and tie—had a few rips, mud stains, and speckles of blood. But still, he managed to look good.

“Jesus, what happened!?”

“I had some last minute business to attend to,” he replied, slightly strained.

“We should get you to the doctor.”

“It looks worse than it is. I’m fine.”

“We should at least get you cleaned up…before the stains set,” you added at the end, hoping that maybe a little dark humor would persuade him. He took the bait and stood up.

“That’s fair,” John laughed dryly and began limping to the elevator. Cursing, you ran to his side and slung his arm over your shoulder for support. He felt tense pressed up against you, clearly unhappy with the help, but if it would have been completely unwelcomed then he would have pulled away.

As the two of you shuffled past the front desk, Charon, as usual, seemed unaffected by it all. At this point, you were quite sure that he was part robot. It was the only explanation.

“Send a bottle of…um…just send a bottle of something to John Wick’s room. And tell Winston I’m taking the night off…please.”

He peered at you over his glasses. “Anything else?”

“That’ll be fine, thank you,” John said before you could open your mouth. Curt and polite. Just like always.

***

“If I see anywhere that needs stitches then I’m calling the doctor,” you stated from the bathroom as you wet a few washcloths. John didn’t reply, though you could picture the amused look he most likely had, perfectly in your head. “I’m not going to let you bleed to death up here. I’ll get fired, for sure.”

You returned to the main room to find him on the bed where you left him, perched on the edge. Except in the short time you’d been gone, he managed to swap out his suit for a pair of gray sweatpants. His suit, though completely ruined, was folded neatly next to him. You weren’t sure what was stranger. The fact that he’d taken the time to fold his clothes, or that a man like John Wick owned sweatpants. 

He looked at you and reached for one of the washcloths. “I can take it from here.”

You paused and scrunched your nose as you eyed him up and down. He was right. It wasn’t as bad as you thought. His face was the only place where any skin had broken. The rest of his torso only held minor bruises. Compared to some of the scars he had, they must have felt like nothing.

“Looks like you need ice packs, not washcloths,” you mumbled. “I can call down for some?”

“It’s fine.” He began to dab at the cut on his nose.

You sat next to him and folded your hands in your lap. “You know, I think getting the holy hell beaten out of you is a valid excuse to cancel a date.”

John paused. “A date?”

“Isn’t that why you invited me out…?” You trailed off as your brain switched into gear, looking for an excuse to slink off in a corner, humiliated at your misperception.

“It was more to brief you on some things Winston apparently neglected to tell you. Formalities. Ways people expect Continental staff to behave. Things that could save your life in the future. It’s very easy to say or ask the wrong thing to the wrong person. You’re protected here, but out there,” he motioned to the window, “Not at all.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I guess it was a date.”

“That’s a weird idea of a date, honestly.”

He nodded. “I’m rusty.”

“Me too,” you admitted. Your love life hadn’t exactly been thriving before coming to work at The Continental. “You’ve only met me twice.”

“Men have taken less time to ask people out.”

“Fair…so does this still count as a date?”

“No. I like to keep my clothes on, on first dates,” he set the cloth down and rolled his shoulders back stiffly. You chuckled.

“I don’t know. Shirtless is a good look for you. But I understand what you mean. We’ll take a rain check, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You rest. Take some Advil or something. Maybe a hot shower,” you dug your hand in your pocket to pull out the coin Winston had given you that first day. “Consider it a favor.”

John smiled softly at the gesture and reached out to take it from you. As he did, his fingers brushed the palm of your hand, and he let them linger—a lingering that shifted until his calloused hand engulfed your own. You could feel jolts of energy spread through you. A sort of nervous excitement that only someone like him could provide.

And then he kissed you. It was soft and fleeting…almost polite until he deepened it more, and slowly, it became fiery. Dangerous. The sort of thing you expected from a man like him. The world had flipped over on itself and melted. But as you began to lose yourself, he pulled you back into reality.

“Tomorrow. Same time, same place. A rain check.”

You took a breath to ground yourself and ease the spinning of your head. “A rain check.”

Just as you regained yourself, he kissed you again, and the world was upside down once more, in the best sort of way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later and who would've thought that The Boogeyman could fall in love?

John lay on his side next to you. His eyes were closed. His body was relaxed. His breathing was steady. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was just a man lulled into a slumber because it was a basic, human need. Instead, you marveled at the fact that the Boogeyman slept.

Instances like these were so rare. In the year you’d been with him, you’d only been able to spend a handful of nights together, and you’d learned to treasure every moment. Perhaps that was why you could never sleep when he was by your side. He always looked so vulnerable, and even in the safety of The Continental, you still felt the need to watch over him. You’d grown to love John more than you could comprehend, and with that love came the constant need to keep him safe. Naturally, he’d assure you that he was perfectly fine—usually as the Continental’s doctor administered him sutures after a job—then change the subject. But you were stubborn, so if he wasn’t going to let you protect him while he was awake, then you’d do it when he was unconscious and had no say in the matter.

In the mornings, he went right back to real life. There was no groggy twilight to ease him in. It was always an alarm jolting his eyes open, and by the second time it buzzed, he’d be sitting up mumbling some variation of “I’m awake, I’m awake” irately at the offending clock. Then he’d turn his attention to you, most likely still asleep, and lay back down to pull you against his body. His arms would snake around you. His lips would graze your neck. It was time to switch roles. He was the protector once again, and you were his porcelain doll. Fragile. Captivating. He told you this on a regular basis. And you believed it to be true. John wasn’t one to say things he didn’t mean. He didn’t like to waste words.

He felt so human in these moments. Then the room service you arranged the night before would show up. You’d eat plain cereal with 1% milk together in silence. He’d excuse himself to shower, and by the time he returned, his humanity had been washed away, and the Boogeyman was back.

You drew your knees to your chest and watched as he moved fluidly about the room, quietly taking inventory of his things while he packed. He did his best to hide the guns from you. He knew you didn’t like them. What they meant he’d be going off and doing.

“Do you think you’ll be back soon?”

“You know I don’t like guessing time frames. I don’t like disappointing you.”

“I know. I just hate when I don’t have time to ask Winston for the night off… and I’ve run out of coins to get other staff members to take my place when it turns out to be last minute.”

“That’s what you’ve been spending your coins on?” He paused what he was doing to stare at you.

“Yeah. What else am I going to? It’s not like I ever leave the hotel. Laundry is a 24/7 job. Winston gives his staff all access to the services offered here… and even if I did have to use them, I’d still probably just save them for you. You’re what’s most important.”

John looked down and exhaled. “This isn’t the life you deserve.”

“I live in a luxury hotel. I work with the most fascinating people on the planet. I’m dating the man of my dreams. I have a good life.”

“I don’t belong anywhere near dreams.”

You ran a hand down your face. “You always say that, but like it or not, you are. Being with you is so romantic it’s almost disgusting. So cliché. You’re a gentleman. I don’t think there has ever been a time I’ve walked through a door that you haven’t held. You buy me little gifts—thoughtful ones—you take a genuine interest in my life. You keep me safe. You always know how to fuck me in the dirtiest ways, yet after, you make me feel clean. You make every little moment we’re together feel so… intimate. Like I’m the only one who exists…fuck,” you hadn’t noticed the way your voice began to quiver as you rambled.

“We both know you’re making things sound better than they are. I’m always gone. As soon as the word got out…about us…you became confined to this hotel, lest you get a bullet in your head. When I do actually show up, it’s always after I’ve done terrible things. And I’ll be covered in the blood to prove it.”

You shrugged. You were both right. You just preferred your version better. “All those things are worth it when you love somebody.”

There it was. Out in the open after avoiding it for a year. You were in love with John Wick. You had been since that first night where your date consisted of tending to his wounds and kissing him shamelessly. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d heard those words strung together—especially directed at him.

He couldn’t bring himself to say it back. Not when he didn’t deserve to hear it in the first place; but his heart was racing and he had to do something. So he walked to you, took your face in his hands, and kissed you. It was sweet. Gentle. That was always how his goodbye kisses went, though this one seemed like there was something more behind it. You weren’t sure. It could just be wishful thinking.

“I have to go now.”

“Yeah, John. I know.”

***

On the third night he was gone, your phone buzzed with a text. You yawned and rubbed your eyes. It had to be closing in on 2am now, and you’d only just climbed into bed after wrestling with a blood stain on a mob leader’s jacket.

Room 842.

You rolled your eyes. He almost always announced his homecoming like this. John’s texts were just like him: the fewest amounts of words possible.

Grumbling, you stood up and walked to the mirror on your wall. You stopped making an effort to primp after a few months of late night arrivals, but you still liked to make sure you looked somewhat presentable. A brush through the hair usually did the trick. Tonight was different, though, and you realized it as you grew more lucid. The last time you saw John, you’d told him you loved him. More importantly, the last time you saw John, you told him you loved him, and he didn’t say it back.

Something wrenched around in your gut. Butterflies? Wasps? Fiery pins and needles? It was a new breed of anxiety you’d yet to face until now, and you felt sick. As you made the trek to his room, a creeping sense of paranoia began to overtake you; that everyone you passed knew. There was a certain pity to it that you hated. Poor thing, about to be heartbroken. A thought radiating off each and every brain in the hotel. In reality, you knew this to be false. All types of people checked in and out of The Continental, but none of them were psychic. They were surely focused on things a little darker than the outcome of your relationship.

John answered on your second knock, holding the door for you as you walked in. He looked tired. More so than usual. 

“Good trip?” You asked quietly. You weren’t in the mood to play the usual lengthy “let’s-see-who-talks-first” game. He nodded.

“’Fraid so.” That was the extent of the remorse he’d typically show after a job. Those same two cursory words in that same, flat tone.

“Are you hurt?”

“A little bruised, otherwise fine.”

“You sure? Because that’s what you said the last time and it turned out you’d gotten stabbed.”

There was an unintentional coldness in your voice—the result of a painstaking three days wondering what was going to happen when he got back. John had surely already picked up on it. He locked his eyes with yours; challenging but soft as he shrugged off his suit jacket and loosened his tie.

He treated his suits with care; always making sure to hang them as neatly as possible, even if they were tattered. During the frequent instances where they were tossed to the ground in heat, he’d still get up and pluck them off the floor after the deed was done. Times like now, he was more methodical about things. He undid each button at a leisurely pace. He removed every piece in a way that could only be described as delicate. It was captivating to watch. Layer by layer, he was removing his shell, until finally, he was bare from the waist up. The element of challenge in his features only increased as he waited for your inspection.

You paced around him. The front of his torso seemed relatively intact, but his back was worse for the wear. Large bruises–some accented with scrape marks–distorted his tattoos and spine. There were a few along the sides of his ribs and arms, as well. From the patterns they presented themselves in, it was clear that this was more than a fall. He’d skidded upon impact. Something strong had knocked him down, more than likely a car. It was amazing how many times the man had gotten hit and lived to tell the tale–metaphorically speaking. He never actually talked about his jobs.

You sighed and resisted the urge to run your fingers along their outlines; a usual habit of yours, as if your touch could somehow ease his pain. “Have you iced?”

“I just need to sleep.”

“You need ice.”

“I know why you’re upset.”

You pursed your lips together tightly and folded your arms. You weren’t caught off guard. You knew how well he could read you, and subconsciously, you’d been trying to make it obvious that there was something wrong. John was a lot of things, but dense wasn’t one of them. It was one of the reasons things had managed to last as long as they had. He didn’t like to play petty head games or bullshit around. If a dialogue needed to be had, then it was had promptly, before an issue began to fester and grow more than it had to.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” he walked to his suitcase to pull out a fresh shirt. Even safe, John didn’t like being so exposed. “I knew this day would come.”

“Jesus, John. You make it sound like I’ve given you awful news or something.”

“That’s not what I mean. I knew the day would come that I’d have to retire.”

“Excuse me…?”

“I knew this was going to end in two ways, so I made myself a promise. Either you’d eventually leave, and things would go on how they are. Or, you’d somehow manage to love me back, and I’d leave this life behind. Build us something real.”

“Love you,” you paused and swallowed thickly in disbelief, “back?” It was funny how someone who spoke so little managed to erase the majority of your vocabulary. “How long have you felt this way?”

“A while.”

You had so many questions. You had so many things you wanted to say. You wanted to fall into his arms and weep. You wanted to kiss every inch of him, pledging yourself both emotionally and physically. You wanted to ask every question about why and how and when, and then tell him every last thought you’d had about your future together. This was the moment you’d been waiting for–hoping for–since…you weren’t sure when. But it had been a desire that consumed you.

And all you could do was stare at him dumbly while he prodded a bruise on his forearm that he’d just noticed. You were realizing that none of the sappy things you’d imagined were right for this. Not now. Not yet. They could come later, now that you knew there was time for them.

“I don’t know what to do. Isn’t that so stupid? I’ve been waiting for this, and now I don’t know what to say or do.” You finally managed.

John looked up at you and let his arms fall to his sides as a rare smile made his features glow.

“Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally intended to be its own separate thing, but I figured I'd compartmentalize rather than clog AO3 up with a million little one shots! Thanks for reading, everyone :)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can also be found on my Tumblr (im-an-octopus) :)


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